What to Believe
by of quills on parchment
Summary: Reborn & Fon; "He believes he knows the other man, but when the hitman's warm breath gently ghosts over his skin in a mimic of a kiss, he wonders if he knows Reborn at all."


Disclaimer: I own nothing despite how I love this pairing to bits. The woes of being just a fangirl.

Prompt: "believing to know something is not knowing something at all"

Warnings: sexual content, homosexuality

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**WHAT TO BELIEVE **by Nether Yetzirah Assiah

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Sometimes, Fon wonders why he lets this happen.

But, then again, he muses thoughtfully, almost darkly, he doubts he could have done anything at all, anyway. His slender silhouette forms an arch against the wall with his head thrown back. His hair veils the smolder of his eyes, how it burns with not lust but ire, and his mouth is open, lips parted in a soundless cry.

He thinks of what the Sun could possibly claim from him, what Reborn could possibly gain from this little game. He does not follow the other man's lead and never shall he ever, but held in the throes of merciless passion, he can do little to create steps of his own.

He rides the other man, pressed against the wall as he is, wraps his legs around the Italian's waist, wraps his arms around broad shoulders and rides him in a way unfamiliar yet not unlike what he truly is: a raging, relentless storm.

It is a battle, this deadly game; one he has resigned himself to ever since he allowed Reborn to force him against the wall, to settle between his thighs, to force his way into his person. He chokes, but he utters not a word. He doesn't let Reborn hear his voice, even as he loses what little control he has in that sordid embrace. And that man, that man maintains a silence not even he can compete with. The only thing he hears is the rustle of cloth, and the steady beat of the man's heart. Nothing else; not the hitch of Reborn's breath, not the quake of the man's muscles. Fon doesn't hear him gasp, he doesn't hear him cry out. It is his own whimpers he hears, muffled against heated skin. It is his own intake of breath that echoes as he shudders into the other's touch.

He cannot help it; he has no reasons to excuse himself with. He trembles, despite how much he tries to soothe the tenseness of his muscles. They spasm, and they tighten, and he clings, loathe as he is to admit it. He moans a moan that cannot be heard, and he whimpers an inaudible whimper that conveys a hurt the other cannot possibly empathize with. Fon's breathing is harsh, and his eyes are dark, dim, but despite the frantic beating of his heart and the muddled haze of his mind, he sees, and he knows, but he doesn't understand. No matter how much he struggle, how much he averts his gaze, he feels Reborn's harsh gaze on him, never once leaving him, and it arouses him, it makes him shudder, it makes him tremble, and these he cannot soothe.

It suffocates him: the way Reborn's touch bruises him and how those same touches are so amorous they leave him wanting more. His traitorous body is like an instrument Reborn plays. Like a puppeteer, the hitman's roaming hands tell his body when to shudder, when to tremble. The scratches tell him when he should gasp, when he should cry out, despite how soundless these actions are. It is as if when Reborn tells him to surrender completely, tells him to submit, he does, and it terrifies him, how easily this man can bend his body to his will, how this man, this sole man can do the strangest things to him, and he allows it, and he accepts it, and he treasures it, because unfathomably, it makes him feel alive.

And this terror, this acceptance, this tenderness he is made to feel.... it angers him. This anger, burning hot and scorching engulfs him; it corrodes his reason, and it makes him desire more, but it is not pleasure he longs for when he searches the dark abyss of the hitman's narrowed eyes. He wants to understand, wants to know the man whom he has so blatantly surrendered himself to, and when he holds Reborn close, pulls him in deeper, he does. In that one instance, every single damned time when he is caged in the man's arms, when he loses himself completely, giving away more of himself than he would wish to, Fon believes he does.

But when he slumps against the wall, breathing harshly, sliding down in a heap on the floor, it is Reborn who catches him, who keeps him upright and holds him in the circle of his arms. Fon wonders why he does this, as he catches his breath, his legs still trembling and he leans almost instinctively to the taller man's touch. The Italian treads long fingers through the tresses of his hair, wraps an arm around his waist and pulls him close.

The touch is gentle in such a foreign way, it stills him, yet he does not do anything, even when Reborn cups his cheek. It is then Fon realizes the closeness of their proximity, feels the ghost of Reborn's breath on his lips, recognizes the strength that supports him. His eyes are wide, his back still a graceful arc that hangs limply, dependent on the other, and his hands are placed on the man's shoulders when Reborn leans even closer. Fon shudders, unable to do anything else but allow himself to be petted, held like a precious doll in the arms of a child. He eyes the hitman's lips, they are close, very close, and he slides his eyes shut, not wanting to see, not wanting to feel, and he attempts turning away when he feels something moist brush the corner of his mouth, but that kiss never comes.

It leaves him breathless, leaves him confused when Reborn simply holds him, gathers him in his embrace, settles him kindly on a couch, those long, calloused fingers still tangled in Fon's silken black locks. He curls to his side there, breathing softly uneven pants. His body has yet to cease trembling, and his hands shake, balling into fists, his knuckles turning white.

Fon wonders why he lets Reborn do this to him. Again and again and again. It is always the same thing, always the hitman taking and taking and taking and himself giving more and revealing more, and he wonders, he just wonders why he lets this happen. Why, he does not understand, but he has this feeling, intuitive as it may sound, that it is because of mutual carnal pleasure. He wonders why Reborn's touches are cruel and bruising, and he believes, he just knows that perhaps it is simply what the man is: dominating, cruel and fierce. The hitman revels in dominance, he knows; he knows, and he acknowledges the selfishness, the ego, the dominance, but when those fingers toy with the tangles of his hair and warm breaths ghost over his cheek in a mimic of a kiss, Fon wonders if he knows anything about Reborn at all.

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**Finire**

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A/N: Yo~ I'm out of inspiration. Really. Sort of... or I just can't really think of anything lately, and I'm lazy and so on and so forth. I actually have work to do, but I tend to write during the oddest times, so I'm accepting prompts now! In case you want to see something between these two, I might write it for you~ ^^;; Personally, I don't think I'm really good with other pairings, but I can try. I mostly write Reborn x Fon now, though so yeah... still. PROMPTS. I NEED THEM LIKE SERIOUSLY.

....Okay.

Thanks for reading! Please review!


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